Twenty Thousand Years
by Mary Sue Militant
Summary: Oban Distant Prequel. In the span of twenty thousand years, time will water down any struggle into a safe, distant hypothetical. If the Great Race was written into history, then perhaps among the footnotes would be this line. "Later, the Avatar who hosted the races would be labeled as a revolutionary, for the races were not simply one of many but first of their kind."


Prologue

To his name, the laborer Kosho had procured three daughters and a single son who lived with weak knees and his left foot in the grave since birth. Seri, his eldest, was no swordsman and it showed in the way that her hands instinctively held her weapon the same way that a servant would hold a broom. The trembling of her hands was slight but enhanced into captivating obviousness by the light scattering on the polish on the blade. There was something beautiful about how ignorant she was and the way it weighed in her hands made it seem as if she thought of this sword in the same way that she would think of a pair of scissors.

The dark thought that passed through Kosho's mind at that moment was doubtlessly shared by the others in the crowd. The tool was too grand for her; in her hands, she held more wealth than her entire family would see in a generation. Somewhere, the goddess of creation and death watched upon this scene and took her husband by the hand, exclaiming, _"Ah, look! What a handsome young woman_." If that were the case, then Kosho should indeed be grateful, not as miserable as his heart wanted to be.

Beautiful Shiode, his wife, wept into her long, auburn colored hair to hide her tears. Kosho turned to her, silently trying to convey this message. _Be proud!_ He thought furiously, the shadows in his mind twisting desperately around this single burning hope. _Be proud that we have had at least one child worth more than the two of us combined._ They both knew that their son would never be able to carry their dreams but for this time, Yun could at least stand by his mother's side and carry what remained of a laboring family's honor. The boy's body shook, supported by mother and cane, but his hands were steady. He watched with even eyes and did not look away.

A man dressed in the simple clothing of one of the local lord's lowest ranking retainers came to Seri and held her by the shoulders. Perhaps the gesture was meant to be comforting. What Kosho perceived it as was pure mockery. _That is our daughter,_ he would have shouted. _At the very least, let her have herself._ Her shoulders remained rigidly straight. She stared at a spot in the crowd. The composed mask she wore hid terror that only a parent would know. But she was more than just her father's daughter so she did not look away either and Kosho was momentary awed by the realization that his eldest and his son were so similar. If she had not been a woman, if he had not been an invalid-

The sea of people parted as a procession of warriors cut through it, dressed in the slightly differing uniforms of separate townships. The lord's retainer went quickly to meet with them. This, too, was an insult of some kind. These men were not retainers like that single man was. They were simple militia men, warrior family bastards or spares who held numbers so low that they would never rise any further than this. His daughter deserved a better audience than that, surely. What would she think? It was her first time ever even holding a sword. If not for the task she had been given, any member of the warrior class would not have hesitated to cut off her hands to reclaim it. The fact that she would be allowed to keep it afterwards was some sort of sick, twisted honor.

Seri was a seamstress but her hands were that of a healer. In truth, both fields found overlaps in needle and thread and delicate precision. In a different place, in a different life, maybe something could have come out of that. Yet Kosho had always hoped because what father did not want the best for his child?

From the side of the crowd, the lord's retainer evidently had finished his business with his inferiors and was scurrying back to Seri's side, like some sort of vermin. Kosho lifted his head and stared forward. As close as he was to the two of them, he could hear what the man now whispered to his daughter.

"You hold it too awkwardly," the man said, in a stiff accent which betrayed his region. Westerners in the midlands were always easy to recognize. They could never punctuate their words forcibly enough to make their opinions count. Kosho sniffled a laugh as the man continued. "Lower your arms. This sword is an instrument, not a tool. You hold it as if you are about to start beating mats with it."

Seri replied so quietly that Kosho had to strain to hear her. "I will miss." Her voice was full of certainty.

"That sword is worth more than your entire family," the retainer said dismissively, gaining more of Kosho's dislike in that instant than he had managed in that entire week. He decided that if the man ever bent down, he would surely spit in his eye. "You may miss but it will not. Now adjust your grip."

She did so. The man hummed. This was something that Kosho could not watch but he kept his eyes opened anyways.

"Now."

The sword came down seconds later, singing on the breeze. The swing was not perfect but then again, nobody had been expecting it to be anyways. Had her execution been flawless, then all of Kosho's senses would have failed him. It was not a perfect swing but it was still passing. He should be content.

And then Seri screamed once, the noise piercing through the small square of their town, sounding wet with coming tears. Each and every member of her family flinched.

Kosho could not allow that. _No, don't, please_ , he willed her silently to understand. _Seri, do not let them see your fear. No matter what choices you make, face them proudly and do not cry._ It was all the reassurance that he could make and even so, he could not even offer it to her. _Seri, Seri._ Maybe the gods would convey his message for him.

The sword sung again as she fell silent and this time, Kosho bowed his head as the second swing came down so much more cleanly than the last.


End file.
